


dangling the carrot

by tackypanda



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, well kind of it's mostly just ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9140353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackypanda/pseuds/tackypanda
Summary: She's convinced the very creative cover he's crafted for them this time wasn't necessary in the slightest, that this is all one big joke thanks to her very obvious interest in him. At least she gets a picnic out of it. Sort of.





	

“I’m just saying, there were _so_ many ways we could have been incognito here. Used the cover of the shadows, parked behind a shrub, even.” Gemma eyed the shoddy twine basket between them like it was a ticking bomb for the fourth time that night, full of snacks and a steadily cooling pot of Blamco mac. “Instead we’re ‘playing’ two people on a picnic on the beach. I never even did something this romantic with my ex.”

He said nothing, just kept sipping his beer. As if on cue, two mirelurks emerged from the water in the distance, paying no mind to the humans (well, _human_ and whatever the hell Deacon turned out to be, who knew with him) parked on their shores as they tried to claw each other apart. “ _Aww_ ,” he cooed in the driest tone possible, prompting Gemma to smack his arm with the box of snack cakes. “Seems like it’s date night for everyone, huh?”

She rolled her eyes, shoveling a spoonful of mac in her mouth against her better judgment. “I mean, did you--” She took a minute to actually chew and swallow before she spoke again. “Why did you actually cook food? We could’ve just sat here and drank.”

“I don’t do any disguise half-assed. Don’tcha know that?” His trademark smirk was on his face as he reached for the box of apples, but he didn’t sound very pleased by all her griping. He never did, but on the other hand, _he_ should have known that she always had something to complain about when she had to play spy. Why he brought her along for this apparently sensitive synth retrieval mission was beyond her.

Unless he was being an utter troll and dangling the proverbial carrot in front of her on purpose. Waiting for their hands to brush over the basket, her to breathlessly ask “so how are we doing, Deacon?”, and for him to grin and say “we’re great, _pal_ ” and abandon her to the food.

Hypothetical Deacon was a dick.

“Nice night out, you gotta admit,” he continued, gesticulating with his bottle. “Wish it was brighter out so I could  _see_ a damn thing. Time for Plan B.”

“Is that the plan where you take off your sunglasses like a normal person?”

Deacon stared at her for several long seconds, expression frozen. “You know I can’t do that,” he all but whispered, as if the shock of that _horrid_ request had shook him to his very core. She snickered, earning her a smile as he dug around in the basket. She gazed around the area - aside from the rabid wildlife, the irradiated water she longed to swim in, and waiting around for some lost synth to stumble past them because he was too difficult to approach, it _was_ nice. Made even nicer by the lit candle suddenly lodged in the sand-- wait, _what_?

“Bam.” He pocketed a matchbook. “Light _and_ romance.”

“Isn’t the whole point to be inconspicuous?!”

“What’s more conspicuous than a couple eating in the dark?” He snorted, reaching out to caress her cheek and managing to keep his expression steady and intent even when chewed up mac fell out of her gaping mouth. “Not able to _look_ at each other, and all that.”

“What loose thread of logic are you following this time?” Her irritation still managed to bleed through her breathy tone, but her expression showed no trace of it. They _did_ look at each other - the wrinkles cutting into their skin, their eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, minor scrapes and bruises from the trip here that didn’t warrant immediate treatment. Seeing - hell, _gazing at_ \- the evidence that they’d thrown themselves into their cause with all they had was the most romantic thing she could think of.

And he probably knew that.

He’d removed his hand at some point during their staring match, and she rolled her eyes at the thought. “How much longer are we gonna have to wait?”

“Aw, not enjoying our feast, _dearest_?”

“Suck it.”

“I’d love to, but macaroni’s not really the right shape for that.”

She dove for him then, hunger for some _thing_ else racing like fire in her veins. She had him pinned down in the sand, lips _so close_ , before a man in sterile Institute garb approached them warily. His gaze flickered between them, the food, and the candle that Deacon had drawn a box in the sand around at some point. Clever.

“Are _you_ supposed to get me out of here?” The guy whispered, a very judgmental brow raised. Gemma barked out a laugh - _you’re on the run from Big Brother with not a weapon to your name, kid, you’re in no position to judge me. Us._

To his credit, Deacon managed to shove her off him as delicately as possible, maybe even taking too long. “The Freedom Trail leads a lot of fun places, sometimes. Prime vacation spots. More people should follow it.”

“We are colleagues,” Gemma tacked on, more awkward and robotic than she’d heard herself in a long time. She just barely restrained herself from swatting Deacon’s thigh when he couldn’t help but chuckle. Any other time, she’d get in that synth’s face for continuing to look at her like _she_ was the incompetent one. Instead, she just rose a box to him. “Deviled egg?”

**Author's Note:**

> i know the synth retrieval process isn't at all like this but sometimes you just gotta lure a wayward synth in with a promising spread and palpable ust


End file.
